


Mr. Heal Your Girl

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [26]
Category: Original Content
Genre: Awkward kindness, Fear, Gen, Injury, mentions of torture, people being weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26095873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: Ex-Combat Medic. The ex- is very important.Unless, apparently, you're a coworker.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan & The Marchioni Family
Series: Tender Mercies [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> mentions of head injury in this one

December, 2018 -- Verona, Italia

“What did I say about taking any more face shots, Zhou?” His voice is level, as he guides the bleeding man back onto the bench to take a seat. Hank, his former captain before he was promoted, grunts rather disgustedly-- likely unwilling to speak through the blood gushing out of his nose and the involuntary watering of his eyes at the moment. “ _Bene, bene._ Here, move your hand–” Carefully, he touches his cool fingers to Hank’s wrist, and draws his hand away from his face to get a better look at him. With his other hand, he pushes the sweaty hair from his forehead, and leaves his hand resting against his scalp to keep his head tilted at an angle, to survey the damage. His calm comes from familiarity with far worse damage in far more tense situations, and it is seemingly unshakable, a fact that tends to relax his little impromptu patients. 

Hank’s dark eyes blink up at him, and Bettino sighs carefully at the state of the bridge of his nose. The younger man’s eyebrows draw together, flickering over his face. His voice is a little garbled, when Bettino turns away to wash his hands and unroll some gauze. His voice is cracked and thick with blood when he finally manages speech. “We… we were just sparring.” 

“Hm?” He turns back around, and carefully mops some off the blood from his face, his hand going back to his hair to keep it out of the way while he works. 

“We were just sparring– It was an accident, I’m fine.” Hank’s voice is a little quiet, but not subdued. Bettino eyes him, and then taps a merciless finger against the bridge of his nose that makes him wince. 

“Well, this isn’t broken, and it’s not like your skull bounced off the floor. I doubt you’re concussed.” Despite the clipped tone, his fingers are gentle when he shoves bits of gauze up his nose, and then carefully tips his head forward once more, to keep the blood from running down his throat. “But the point is– you could have been. How about you get that through your thick skull?” They're equals now, Captain to Captain in the Marchioni family, and so he allows his tongue to be a bit more glib than it ever was as a subordinate. A long silence stretches and Hank is uncharacteristically quiet throughout. The tension mounts, and to cut it Bettino pats the knuckles of his right hand with a small eye roll. "Just keep your guard up next time. Rossetti is two meters tall and hits like a freight train."

Hank stands with a huff of amicable laughter, spine cracking as he goes. "I'm telling them you said that."

Bettino's smile is all teeth. "Do you think they'll be offended by my saying so?" 

They both know the answer is no.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship, just like the doctor ordered.

December, 2018 -- Verona, Italia

Injuries heal.

It may be the most important lesson he’s learned. There are some that people never recover from, and there are many that never get the chance to heal, but for the most part, bones mend and flesh knits. In some capacity, sometimes only in the smallest of ways: every survivable injury heals. The stab wound to his thigh is no different, though it seems like it takes longer than it used to. Aging, and the feeling of an ax hanging just over the nape of his neck, always ready to swing– it makes time drag by.

Honestly? He thinks that Olympia’s yoga invites and girlish optimism have helped. Bettino is no stranger to physical therapy exercises: working out, stretching, building the muscle back up. But her quiet nature, easy chatter, something small to look forward to and the companionship of her and her little french bulldog for their little biweekly sessions has probably helped him more than he would care to admit out loud. He’s long since ditched the crutches, and can get around most days with only minor twinges of pain– they’ve concluded their little impromptu yoga class for the day, and he’s carrying Penelope under one arm and moseying to the front door, sipping on some funny little drink concoction she’d whipped up in her blender and shoved into his hand with an excited, _try this!_

It tastes really, really sweet--there's no way it's good for him. It will be gone soon anyway. He bends down to set the little dog on the ground and she scampers off, and when he straightens again, Olympia throws her nut-brown arms around his shoulders and drags him down into a warm hug. He doesn’t jerk away, but he does freeze for a moment, before wrapping an arm around her mid back. She doesn’t release him for a few seconds, so he takes a sip of the smoothie from the straw over her shoulder. She laughs, then, and draws away. Her nose is crinkled. 

“Thank you for coming by. See you again soon?” He tries to imagine she doesn’t sound hopeful, and kind. 

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere, signorina. I’ll see you around.” He lifts the little metal cup she’d given him. “I need to give your … thing, back. No?” Shaking it a little as if to emphasize, he slips his shoes on and steps out of her apartment. The sound of her laughter follows him all the way home, curling into his bones and keeping out the chill of the coming winter storm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A magpie of a woman.

December, 2018 -- Verona, Italia 

The tall shelves in the library offer a modicum of privacy, at least. He’s so sick of the prowlers: Roffe looking to rip out his throat and use his corpse as a step up, Marco looking to crack open his mind and pick apart all the interesting little things about him. He’s not exactly fast or sly enough to slip away, laid up on crutches as he is. But Bettino can hide himself well enough among the books, in the quiet-- nobody ever really lingers in the philosophy section. As a bonus: free entertainment, something for him to chew on while he sulks. 

He’s not hiding. He’s… convalescing. 

In the company of theologians long dead, he boredly picks his way through the stacks. Pulling a book, cracking it open, reading two dense pages, getting irritated, putting it back. It’s not like he expects to find the secrets of God and the universe tucked away here, especially when most of the books here were written by Christians, but– Bettino nearly jerks out of his skin when he looks to the side and spots Valeria Gattino standing silently next to him with a very odd sort of look on her face. 

Thief-quiet feet. The start had made him drop his book, though he supposes that’s just what he gets for dropping his guard, and as some kind of twisted cosmic vengeance for all of the people _he's_ startled over the years. He lifts a brow at her, and she shifts her feet, and then gestures to the empty space behind him. “You’re in the way.” 

The other brow joins its brother, raised on his face. “I’m… sorry?” It takes him a moment to realize she wants to get past him, if only because he’s struggling to understand just why the hell she’s down here at all, let alone in this particularly dense and meaningful section-- not that she's unintelligent, no, he knows better than to believe that; just disinterested in thoughts of why. She grows impatient with his incomprehension, and with an eye roll she settles a hand on his hip and pushes him closer to the shelf in front of him, slipping around behind him, sly as a fox. He lets her manhandle him, but just before she slips out of reach he catches the back of her shirt and gives her a brief shake. “Give me my wallet back. Now.”

She squirms, and he has no doubt that if she wanted to break free and take off, she would. It wouldn’t be hard– he can hardly walk right now. Instead she chooses to whine and huff like a caught puppy: “I was just messing around–”

“I know. And it’d be really funny if you did it to anyone else.” He thinks for a moment, and then releases her, holding out his hand. She obligingly slaps the folded leather into his palm with a huff, and he tilts his head at her, something a little sly blooming in his eyes. “Have you ever tried that on De Luca? I bet he carries 100 bills.” 

Valeria smirks at him like a demon, holds up two fingers, and then sinks back into the shadows among the stacks. He doesn’t hear her leave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swimming with the fishes, as it were.

February, 2019 -- Verona, Italia

He’s smoking a cigarette outside the entrance to the tiny, local aquarium, waiting, when he sees her trotting towards him with a grin on her face. She’s easy to spot, at least– a half-head taller than most of the people milling about, and she moves through the crowd easily, like a willow tree come to life. Bettino puts the cigarette out, nods at her greeting, and gestures for her to come inside with him. 

Her warm chatter seems to fill up the room, even when the ceilings reach heights of ten meters, and her eyes are wide and excited as they stand in the entrance, like she’s not quite sure where to go first. Bettino lifts his hand to touch her elbow, ready to pull her along to the reef exhibit, but before he can open his mouth her fingers clamp around his and she pulls him along to native European freshwater fish, excited at the prospect of learning some things about the creatures she’d eaten growing up in the Urals. He follows along gamely, a half-smile tugging the corners of his lips as he listens to her chatter, and offers brief and obscure insight about things he barely remembers, things he’d learned from the marine biologist he’d met here as a boy twenty years ago. 

With something like hope in his chest, he’d brought his sketchbook today, tucked in the backpack slung over his shoulder. He draws nothing today, but only because his hand remains clasped in hers as he lets her lead. The memories will be there later tonight, hopefully: the dangerous curve of the thresher shark’s tail, the snaggle tooth on the moray eel hiding in the rocky reef, and the way Arisha’s hair falls over her shoulder like a waterfall when it’s not pulled back.


	5. Chapter 5

June, 2018 -- Verona, Italia

Kafka always puts him to sleep, in the way that well-worn bedtime stories tend to do. He should have known better than to crack him open, stretched out on the slightly-too-small couch in his three-month-old-promotion office. It’s been something like three days, he thinks, since he’s been back to his apartment, unwilling to let the harsh silence of the place fill him to the brim with cold, bitter loneliness. At least here, he can stalk the halls like a wraith and see some signs of life, even if it means he’s not going to sleep well for the foreseeable future. 

Bettino gets about five pages in, before he dozes off. The papers on the desk are tucked neatly into files and meticulously organized, the bookshelf ordered by language, genre, and title, and the sharp angle of his neck looks like it will be quite painful upon sitting up. He never locks his door when he's in– but Brizio, at least, is polite enough to knock before entering. In that soft stage of sleep, in between wakefulness and real rest, he can hear him, but he can’t quite force his eyes open, or make himself respond. Brizio cracks the door open and peers around the wood to check for signs of life, and he can hear him make some kind of muffled noise, before entering the room. He’s not exactly trying to make himself quiet. His hand is hot like a brand when it lands on the knee of his outer leg, and he applies just the faintest bit of pressure with a soft murmur of his name. Familiar then, with waking sleeping dogs.

Eyes crack open, little more than narrow slits. They land on Brizio, who stares at him right back, a small smile on his face, his hand steady on his knee. Lazily, like a great jungle cat, Bettino’s eyes flick from his hand to his face, back again. A questioning noise spills from his mouth, nonverbal. Little more than a tired groan. 

Brizio’s smile grows, but he manages to hide it in his hand, and lifts his palm from Bettino’s knee until only his fingers remain in contact, three points of warmth on the bone. “You’re going to get a cramp in your neck sleeping like that.” He gets a sleepy hum as an answer, and huffs out a laugh. “Okay, okay. My question can wait. Do you want me to grab you a pillow or something? What’s the point of having a napping couch without a pillow?” This time, his response is a sleepy laugh, and he draws his hand away as he straightens back to his full height. “I’ll be back soon.” 

The quiet ‘thanks’ that comes muffled from the couch may or may not be heard, when he’s on his way out. Bettino will try again when he comes back.


	6. Chapter 6

May, 2018 -- Verona, Italia

Roffe’s problem, he thinks, is that he never drew the right kinds of attention as a child. Always none at all, or disappointment, or seething resentment: that kind of shit has to mess you up in the head. Whatever used to be within Bettino that would flinch from such an uncharitable thought about a man he used to consider a close friend has long died, and it comes freely, now, with the target of such ire leaning a hip against the back of his chair, one long fingered hand resting carefully splayed against his shoulder blade. He’s leaned close, his head dipped so he can lower his voice to an intriguing whisper.

_Just a little friendly advice, for my new capitano,_ he’d said. Advice, sure, but to what end? His hand feels freezing against the tense line of his shoulders, and Bettino doesn’t move except to glance at him from the corner of his eye, the sly grin at the corner of his lips. Any attention is good attention. The boys they used to be and all the affection between them was clearly dead. 

The older man must think he has him, if he’s being so bold– Bettino’s mistake had been leaning into the initial point of contact, a congratulatory pat on the shoulder that hadn’t quite masked the… what, ugly, petty jealousy? Over his swift promotion, while Roffe remains a lowly footsoldier? The older man is really leaning into it now, his voice so low and velvety, and Bettino’s brows furrow. He waits him out, utterly still, while his thumb words its steady way back and forth over the sharp, jutting plate of bone. He doesn’t know what the motivation behind this is, and very briefly he considers leaning into it, acting as if he were enthralled, weak, and not ready to face the challenges put onto his plate alone. For a moment, he thinks about letting Roffe think he’s won, and waiting him out until he slips. The thought of playing that kind of game exhausts him.

He makes the wrong choice. 

“If I wanted your advice, Isakssen, I would have asked for it.” His voice is just as quiet, but where Roffe's had sounded like silk, his own is as cutting as steel. He doesn’t move, but Roffe’s hand stills against his back and then carefully draws away, the look on his face unreadable. It’s a rebuke, and a cold one at that. 

But the game today is his loss: Roffe walks away with the knowledge that he’s not a simpering, uncertain idiot, and that’s going to be an avenue of approach completely useless to him now. But he also learns that with the right pressure, the perfect angle of attack, he can get Bettino to flinch. It’s an unforgivable chink in the armor he’s made for himself, one that will leave him cursing this moment for years to come.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for what might be suicidal idealization

February, 2019 -- Verona, Italia

Marco Rossetti has the air and bearing of a jackal: tucked, lean mischief. Backlit by the street lights, keeping an eye on the road for anyone that might approach and ruin their little party. Bettino turns his gaze from them, to where the last severed limb of the man they’d dismembered earlier in the week is being sunk to the bottom of the Adige in a black bag, weighed down with rocks. Nine pieces, nine locations– it was like a bonding activity, just the two of them. 

He can hardly remember what the man had looked like, when Bettino had put a bullet between his eyes after they’d gotten what they’d wanted from him. All he is now is the bits of him they’ve left scattered to the four winds, chunks of rent flesh. The water that swallowed this last piece of that unfortunate soul is black, cold, and menacing. He can’t stop the thought: some idiot failed to be this careful with his father. They’d left him whole, really, other than his face. He leans over the guard rail, watching the black water swirl calmly below, the surface undisturbed but for the occasional ripple of current. Not that the easy identification had helped the police solve it, if they’d even tried in the first place. Marco calls for him, but he’s focused on the water.

In his mind’s eye, he can see the black bag falling swiftly to the bottom. He can see them pulling a whole, bloated corpse to shore, the rescue divers pulling off their masks with a sigh. He can see the black water rising up to meet him, pulling him down, next. Like father, like son– he can’t help but wonder how many sons and daughters he’s condemned to this life of empty revenge. His gloved fingers creak as they tighten on the bar they’ve been resting on, and a brief swell of nausea hits him–

Marco jabs him in the ribs with their elbow. Hard. 

Bettino hisses, drawing away with a reproachful look. “Fuck, what do you want?” 

They give him an odd look, and then turn their gaze to the water. “What were you thinking about? You looked like you were about to throw yourself into the river.” Bettino shakes his head, the only answer he gives, and starts walking back to the van. Marco trots along to catch up after a moment, easily overtaking him with their long legs, and stuffs their hands into their pockets. “I called for you four times, Tahan.” 

His jaw clenches, but he just shakes his head tiredly, unwilling to crack himself open when he feels so raw already. “Nothing. I just can’t swim, did you know that?” 

The minor factoid delights them, something mean gleaming in their eye as they glance between him and the increasing distance to the river. The mischief, the air of the jackal. But Bettino knows this: they’re no scavenger. Marco Rossetti could only ever be something far deadlier.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for violence and descriptive injury

November, 2019 -- Verona, Italia

It’s not every day, one takes a crowbar to the face. 

Bettino is fairly sure that his nose and jaw aren’t broken, but the zygomatic bone might be, and the pain radiates outwards to the rest of his face, throughout his skull. The fucker that hit him got his, but he wasn’t much use after that, bleeding so badly he kept slipping in it on the worn cobblestones, stumbling around half concussed. Marco had grabbed him by the arm at one point, and dragged him, and shoved him in the passenger seat of their car. He did not appreciate the manhandling, but he was having a hard time talking, so in order to let them know he simply collapsed back and bled all over the fine leather interior. They arrive… somewhere, and after throwing the parking brake on they get out, and gather him up, and walk him inside. His feet are only slightly more steady this time around, but with the crashing adrenaline, he’s glad of their help. 

He’s unsure if this is their apartment, or just a place they crash sometimes. He’s never been. The place is clean enough, and they hand him a towel and an ice pack that he presses to his face with a hiss. Once he gets the bleeding stopped, it’s easier to assess the damage– a wicked looking split in his eyebrow, and down his cheek, where the skin had broken open against bone. He leaves it, for now, unwilling to force his shaking hands to do any stitches, and when he wanders around their apartment, they watch him with narrowed eyes, disappearing into the bedroom beyond and returning with some fresh clothes. 

“These should fit. Maybe. Guess it depends on how skinny you are.” He can’t quite make himself talk, so he grunts in response, which they apparently take as some kind of argument. “You’re covered in gore– look like a murder victim.” They settle a firm hand on his shoulder and steer them back to the bathroom, setting the clean clothes on the counter there and then crossing their arms as they stand in the doorway. Bettino sighs wetly and pulls the ice pack away from his face with a grimace, settling it on the counter and then pulling off his blood-soaked shirt. Marco hands him a washcloth, which he wets in the sink and uses to try and wipe the worst of the crusted, tacky blood off his chest where it had soaked through his shirt. He throws it back in the sink when he’s done, and reaches for the shirt, but their hand on his forehead stops him cold. 

There’s no wonder there, or fascination. Their eye is critical as they push the sticky strands out of his face and peer down at him to get a better look at the injury. Standing stock still and tracking their movement takes a little more effort than it should, maybe, but still a scoff rolls out of him when they murmur, “Looks like shit.”

“Had worse.” It’s hard to understand him, when half of his face is warring between numbness and gut-wrenching pain, but the message goes through clear enough. Their eyes drop to his torso, perhaps less scarred than one would expect; it just makes the ones he does have all the more noticeable. He stands still, watching their face as their fingers first trace down the long scar on his left forearm, and then across the one from navel to rib cage. Old, old hurts, long healed, but the nerves on the skin are still half dead, and he isn’t sure if their exploration feels… nice?, or if he wants to shove them away. He only does it when their thumb settles against the scar on his right bicep, where a bullet had torn through the flesh there. He draws away, then, and pulls on the shirt. It’s far too large, almost comically so. 

They laugh. “Maybe less than I’d have thought you would. You look cute in my clothes, like a little kid.” He rolls his eyes and gets started on peeling his pants off next, undoing the button with one hand and shoving them out the door with the other. They must let him, because it’s easy.


End file.
